What Could Have Been: Jetlag
by mon-petit-pois
Summary: Because no one goes through what Ziva did and magically comes out "fine." What really happened, when they shared a bed in Paris?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the third "What Could Have Been" story. This takes place in Jetlag.

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"We'll flip for it," Tony said. They were standing in their hotel room, in front of the bed. _One_ bed. Two of them.

"Fine," Ziva grinned, and grabbed his arm in a vice grip, flipping him onto the floor. Tony looked up at her, groaning.

"You know what I mean, Ziva!" he grimaced. She stared down at him for a second longer, before going to sit on the bed.

"Did I?" she raised her eyebrows. Tony couldn't help but laugh.

"This is ridiculous. Do you trust me?" Tony asked.

"Of course I trust you. You are my partner. I trust you with my life," she assured him.

"So you trust me not to do anything... inappropriate if we share the bed?"

"I trust that you value the use of your opposable thumbs. I also trust that you know that you would lose that, should you make a move on me," she replied, pulling out her sweatpants and tee-shirt to change into.

"It's not like we haven't slept in the same bed before," he added.

"We were on a mission," she pointed out, before she disappeared behind the bathroom door.

"We're on a mission now, too!" he shouted to her. When she didn't reply, he knew he had won the argument.

Tony smiled smugly, before taking off his shorts and shirt, leaving him in his boxers. He climbed in the bed and switched off the light.

"Goodnight, sweetcheeks," he called.

"Do not let the bed insects bite," she replied.

"It's bed bugs!"

"Just shut up and go to sleep, my little hairy butt!"

…

He woke up to snoring. Sighing, he rolled over and was about to poke her back, when he froze. Her shirt had ridden up, exposing her back and her stomach.

There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't marred by scars. Some were long and thin, stretching all the way across her back. Some were short, like stab wounds. Some portions of her skin were scored. Some of the scars were nearly black, and circle shaped. Cigarettes.

He gasped, he couldn't help it. She rolled over onto her back, leaving her stomach in plain view. What he saw, nearly made him jump up for the bathroom. His blood boiled and bile rose in his throat.

Branded onto her stomach, was an elegant letter S. S for Saleem. Saleem, the bastard who had nearly taken her from him forever.

The one responsible for all her pain.

She began to stir, and before he could lay back down and pretend to be asleep, her eyes were open and she was gazing at him, confused.

"Wha'?" she asked, groggily. She inhaled sharply and quickly covered herself up when she followed his gaze, and saw her exposed stomach. "What are you doing?" she asked, venomously. Tony couldn't speak, his mouth just hung agape like an idiot. 

"I, uh, you, erm, snoring... Shirt, it, um, uh..." Tony said, struggling for words. She just stared at him, until he gathered his bearings again. "I didn't mean to pry, I was just turning around and your shirt had ridden up..." he explained, rather pathetically. He was still staring at the spot under her shirt where the initial was forever burned into her skin. The only thing he could think to do was to comfort her.

So he leaned over to her, and enveloped her in his warm embrace, softly rubbing comforting circles on her back with his hand. She didn't respond. She couldn't respond.

How could he be touching her? After seeing her scars, her flaws, _his_ markings. His markings that branded her as _his_, forever.

She had given up on any man ever wanting to touch her again. She knew no one would ever want her after seeing those markings, that showed she was broken, damaged, ruined.

Why would he _want_ to touch her? She was filthy, disgusting.

But he was. He was holding her, comforting her, soothing her. She couldn't deny it was soothing. It made her calm. But there was an air about him. He wasn't pitying her, which she was grateful for. She didn't need, nor did she want, his pity. She wanted his sympathy, and that's what she was getting.

And there was something else, too. It was anger. He was angry. Why was he angry with her? What had she done? She was confused, now. She pulled away.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked. Tony looked at her, confused.

"Why in the world would I be mad at you?" he wondered, eyebrows knit. She looked away.

"You are angry," she observed.

"At _Saleem,_ Ziva! He did this to you... he left you with reminders of that hell you will never be able to get rid of. If I could kill him a thousand times over, I would," he said, his voice growing dark. Ziva smiled a little, happy that it wasn't her he was angry with.

"I know you would," she nodded.

"You don't need to be ashamed of them," he told her.

"Who said I was ashamed?" she countered.

"Your eyes say it all," he informed her. She looked away, obviously developing a discomfort with eye contact.

"Maybe I should be ashamed."

"You don't need to be ashamed. They are a part of you, now. They are a reminder that you survived. That you won. That, against the odds, you came out on top," he assured her.

"No, I did nothing. They only kept me alive to use me to satiate their various... desires. I just sat there, a damsel in distress, waiting for rescue."

"You survived. That's all that matters. We can't always be our own knight in shining armor. Sometimes we just need to be taken care of," he promised her.

"But now I am used! I am a broken, violated, damaged mess! I am disgusting! Even _I _am repulsed at myself!" she cried.

"Don't talk like that. You are loved, you are treasured. It makes no difference what you have been through."

"I still can not believe you haven't just run out of this room, disgusted, yet," she smiled sadly.

"Hey, give me some credit!" he chuckled, but soon became serious. "My vision of you hasn't changed, you are still my kick ass partner. The one who teases me and flirts with me to no end. It's not different. You are still Ziva, and you always will be. Not Saleem's Ziva, not Mossad Ziva, not Torture-victim Ziva, just Ziva. _My _Ziva. Okay?" he told her. She smiled. It was a genuine smile, one that actually reached her eyes, filling them with life. Tony couldn't help but smile back.

"Thank you," she said, gently kissing his cheek. Tony smiled even wider, if it was possible, and wrapped his arms around her again, leaning up against the headboard. This time, she relaxed into his arms, her head resting on her heart. Tony gently traced each scar on her back with his fingertip. To Ziva, this was symbolic. She knew that now, whenever she looked in the mirror and saw those scars, she would smile. She would remember what he told her, that she was "his Ziva." She would remember how his fingertip felt when it caressed each and every scar that marred her once-beautiful skin, when he re-marked her. She wasn't Saleem's Ziva anymore. Those weren't reminders of Saleem and his camp. They were reminders of Tony, and how it felt to be held into his arms, listening to his rythmic, calming hearbeat.

They were reminders of what it felt like to fall asleep in the haven of his arms.

A/N: Please, please review! I hope this didn't get _too _OOC. These kinds of fics are always tricky, because we don't _know_ how they would react in a situation like this. Thanks so much for everyone who has reviewed in the past! Each and every one means so much to me:)

Until next time,

Alli.


	2. Chapter 2

**I just uploaded another part to this series, called What Could Have Been: Broken Arrow, if you want to check that out.**


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